


Taking Care of Anton; Or, Chicken Soup for the Balls

by Medeafic



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris likes taking care of sick people.  Anton is sick.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care of Anton; Or, Chicken Soup for the Balls

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N** : For this [prompt on the kink meme](http://community.livejournal.com/trek_rpf_kink/2887.html?thread=4472391#t4472391), and for [](http://garden-hoe21.livejournal.com/profile)[**garden_hoe21**](http://garden-hoe21.livejournal.com/), because she is FREAKING AWESOME. Thank you a million times over to  
> [](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/profile)[ **emmessann**](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/) for the beta, which made this so very much better; to the very lovely [](http://nolikereally.livejournal.com/profile)[**nolikereally**](http://nolikereally.livejournal.com/) who beta'd for medical accuracy (of course, all errors are completely my own); and to [](http://zjofierose.livejournal.com/profile)[**zjofierose**](http://zjofierose.livejournal.com/), who read an early draft and put up with me. <3

  
“Hey, man, what are you doing here?”

Anton looks both surprised and pleased to see him, Chris decides, although his voice is scratchy and makes Chris’s throat ache a little in sympathy. He turns up his smile an extra notch. Anton is dressed only in boxer shorts and a worn white tee, and looks a little flushed, Chris notes. It’s not a bad look on him. He hasn’t shaved for a few days, and his curls, usually as bouncy and happy as he is, are drooping. Chris has the almost irresistible urge to ruffle them.

“Heard my favorite Ensign was under the weather,” he says instead. He holds out a tub of ice cream. “So I’m here to take care of you. Sore throat, right?”

Anton gives a smile, but shakes his head. “Probably contagious,” he half-whispers. “If I bring down the Captain I’ll be ostracized on set.”

“Don’t worry about it!” Chris brushes past him into Anton’s apartment and busies himself in the kitchen. Anton has been living alone for less than a year, and Chris remembers what it was like in his own first months of bachelor-living. Fun and games until he got that awful bout of flu, and his sister had to come and take care of him. But Anton’s an only child.

He’s glad that Anton doesn’t protest again, and as Chris peeks around the corner of the kitchen, can see that he’s plonked himself back on the sofa with a blanket and the TV remote.

He and Anton always had an unacknowledged attraction during the first _Trek_ shoot, but Chris never let it go anywhere because he felt he was too old for someone who still had _-teen_ on the end of his age. But Anton is 22 now and – when not felled by illness – has somehow perfected a sultry eye-fuck that Chris has found himself unable to ignore. So they’ve fooled around a little, mostly after a few drinks, and one time when Anton was having a really bad day on set and Chris figured an orgasm would probably cheer him up. It did.

Apart from that, they’ve never really been serious about anything. When Chris heard that Anton was sick, though, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“I guess you shouldn’t talk too much if you’ve got a sore throat,” he says, bringing through an enormous bowl of ice cream. Anton eyes it with worry.

“I’m not two-pints-of-dairy sick,” he says, but his voice sounds strained enough that Chris thinks he probably is. Dumb kid, he thinks affectionately. He looks pale and clammy, his eyes huge and soulful in his pallid face.

“Just keep quiet and let me do the talking,” Chris advises, pushing the bowl into his hands. “I bet you’re bored, anyway. What have you been doing? Oh, right. Don’t answer that. I guess – TV?”

Anton nods.

“Anything good on?”

A decisive shake for no.

“You got anything on Tivo?”

A mournful look, and Chris almost starts giggling. “DVDs?” A shrug.

“Not the end of the world, buddy. _I_ can entertain you.”

That earns a hopeful look. Anton licks his lips.

Chris pulls out a pack of cards from his pocket. “I’ll teach you how to play poker! No, really. I know, I know, you _think_ you can play. Gotta trust me on this, though. I’ll show you how to play like a _man_.”

An hour later, Anton has won $500 from Chris, and Chris is starting to think that playing poker like a very smart kid is more effective than his own allegedly manly style.

“How about you rest now?” Chris suggests, frowning. “I’ll tidy up in the kitchen.” Anton has left it littered with dirty mugs and plates. He loads the dishwasher and then puts on a kettle for tea. His own mom used to give him tea with honey whenever he was sick, so he figures it might help Anton too. Although, speaking of mothers—

Chris goes back into the lounge and sees that Anton looks sleepy, but is still determinedly blinking his eyes open. “Where’s your mom?” he asks softly. “I figured she might be over here, taking care of you.”

“Vacation,” Anton says, with a _poor me_ expression. “I called her. She said it was probably just a cold, but if I got worse, to tell her and she’ll cut it short. But I don’t want her to—” He interrupts himself with a weak bout of coughing. “…come back early,” he finishes weakly. “She deserves some time off.”

Chris nods thoughtfully, a plan forming. “All moms deserve time off,” he observes. “So I’ll tell you what. I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m not a _child_.”

“No, but you’re sick, and sick people need to be taken care of,” Chris says firmly. “Besides…”

“Besides?”

“I _like_ taking care of sick people.” Chris hopes that his face is not as bright red as it feels.

Anton shrugs, although he looks a little happier. “Suit yourself, I guess. But what if you get sick too?”

“Not gonna happen,” Chris tells him confidently. “My immune system has had _years_ longer to build itself up than yours. Besides, it probably _is_ just a cold. Now, is it feed a cold and starve a fever? Or the other way around? I guess either way, it’s best to keep your strength up.”

“Maybe I should just go to the doctor,” Anton suggests, sounding alarmed behind the croak.

“No, no, _no_. Let me take care of you. If you feel worse tomorrow, we can take you then. Where are your keys? I need to go buy provisions.”

Anton waves towards the side table near the front door.

“I’ll be right back, buddy! You get some sleep.”

“Wait! Can you – can you stay while I fall asleep? It’s just nice having someone else here.”

“Sure I can,” Chris tells him, his heart beating a fraction faster. Anton drifts off to sleep and Chris tiptoes out. He tries not to wake Anton on his return, and creeps to the kitchen. He does his best to minimize the banging of pots and pans, slamming of drawers and doors, and the occasional muttered curse.

  
***

  
Chris wakes Anton gently by wafting a bowl of chicken soup under his nose.  Anton makes a hoarse, wheezy noise and then coughs. “How long did I sleep?”

“Don’t try to talk yet. Sit up and have some of this. You slept for three hours, man. You must have needed it.”

Chris puts the bowl down on the coffee table and helps Anton rearrange, fluffing the pillows behind his back and tucking the blanket in so firmly around his sides that Anton gives a protesting squeak. “Sorry,” Chris says briefly, although he’s grinning like crazy. “You ready for some nourishment? Lots of protein! It’ll help.” He proffers the bowl again, wrapped in a dish cloth. “It’s pretty hot. The bowl, I mean. Eat up!” He presses a spoon into Anton’s hand.

The soup is clear, golden in color but has several large, gray, uneven lump-things floating in it. Anton scrunches up his nose.

“Matzo balls!” Chris explains joyfully. “Okay, yeah, I know, they’re a bit…less-than-perfect looking. They’re on the inept side of rustic. But when you taste them, you’ll stop caring what they look like.” Anton looks suspicious. “Just _eat them_ ,” Chris sighs.

So Anton cautiously takes a sip of the soup, and Chris watches his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. When he bites tentatively into a matzo ball and then chews enthusiastically, his face a picture of enjoyment, Chris starts feeling it – a sense of satisfaction.

“Ow.” Anton grimaces.

“What’s wrong?”

“It hurts when I chew.”

“Then just have the broth,” Chris says. “That’s where all the good stuff is, anyway.”

“Damn. Even better than my mom’s,” Anton says, after he’s finished the whole bowl in about two minutes. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“We share a heritage, man,” Chris grins happily. “Jewish on my mom’s side. Her chicken soup is all I ever wanted when I was sick, and then when I was better, too, but she’d only make it when I was sick. So I had to learn. How’re you feeling now?”

Anton concedes, “My throat feels better.”

“Chicken broth has natural anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial properties,” Chris tells him knowledgeably. “Okay, now that you’re less zonky, I want to take your temperature.”

Anton sighs. “Why?”

“Because you look a little pink, and I want to keep an eye on your temp.” He puts his hand on Anton’s forehead. It’s definitely warm.

“My ‘ _temp_ ’? Seriously?” Anton starts to laugh, and cough. “Why are you even doing this, man? I’m not _that_ sick. I mean, thanks, and all, but – don’t you have to get back to filming tomorrow?”

Chris waves aside his words. “It’s Sunday tomorrow. And besides, I have Monday off too. And I told you – I like feeling useful.”

Anton gives him a speculative look. “You said you liked taking care of sick people,” he corrects.

“You want another bowl?” Chris asks. It’s not something he really wants to get into right now, the fact that he kind of has a _thing_ for this. It’s not something he really wants to admit to _himself_ most of the time.

But Anton doesn’t want more soup, not yet. He just really, really needs to go to the bathroom. Chris insists on helping him down the corridor, and waits for him outside. It’s a good thing he does, because Anton, despite that burst of strength, seems dizzy once he’s washed his hands and exited the bathroom.

“Whoa, you okay?” Chris asks, catching him when he stumbles into the wall.

“I think I’ve been lying down too long.” Anton’s voice _does_ sound better, but his eyes are too bright.

“Seriously, you look feverish. Come and sit down. I need to take your temp. Erature,” he adds quickly, but Anton just gives a wan smile.

“Alright.”

His acquiescence tells Chris that the poor kid really _is_ sick, and he feels a little guilty. He shouldn’t be anything except compassionate right now, and he _definitely_ shouldn’t be feeling his skin tingle and his breath come faster as he helps Anton back to the couch.

Chris deposits him on the sofa gently and doesn’t miss the small, quizzical glance Anton gives him.

“Go on, then. Take my temp,” he says softly. Chris searches his face for sarcasm or teasing – clear.

“Okay?” he says, his voice a half octave higher than normal. “Yeah. Okay.” He walks as casually as possible to the kitchen, where he’s left the thermometer, newly purchased along with the whole chicken and matzo he bought earlier for the soup.

He stands there momentarily, staring at the thermometer and wondering if this is really a good idea. He wants to help, sure, but if he’s honest with himself, it’s not purely altruistic. On the other hand, Anton really does need someone to care for him, especially with his family away. Chris argues back and forth with himself until another cough from the lounge room pulls him from his reverie.

When Chris returns to the lounge, he’s wondering if he looks feverish himself. Anton is watching him with wide, calm eyes, a little too knowing. Chris clears his throat.

“Are you sure you want to let me do this? I could just take you to the doctor, maybe.”

“I’m sure,” Anton replies patiently.

“Well. Okay. Open wide.”

“Oh. I thought it was going to be an ear one.”

“I like the mouth ones better,” Chris says, and blushes a little. He doesn’t know why, but it’s true – taking someone’s temperature from the ear seems so impersonal to him. “I mean – I think they give a more accurate reading. Personally. But I could go buy one for the ear, if you’d rather—”

“It’s fine.” Anton opens his mouth placidly, and Chris puts the thermometer gently under his tongue. He can’t resist reaching out to cup his chin, ostensibly to help him keep the thermometer in.

“Wait for the beep.” His voice is almost shaking.

It’s just that people so rarely let him care for them like this. It doesn’t feel like a _weird_ thing. _Is_ it a weird thing? Chris isn’t sure. Maybe the rush he gets when he sees thermometers and latex gloves and _stethoscopes_ , for Christ’s sake, is weird – but just wanting to take care of someone, that’s different, surely?

Anton’s looking at him still, and Chris finds it difficult to meet his eyes. “Thanks,” he says spontaneously, and then he knows he really _is_ blushing. The thermometer beeps, and he removes it, checks the number. It’s slightly higher than it should be, but not dangerous.

“Thanks for what?”

Chris stares steadily at the thermometer instead of at Anton. “For letting me do this. All of this. Some people think it’s…they think it’s not…” He searches for the right word. “Masculine.”

“Like your poker playing?” Anton grins and actually _pinches_ him. Chris pulls away, laughing.

“I just like doing it. When I was a kid, I got teased about it, so these days I don’t like admitting to it. Wow. I’ve never told anyone that before.”

Anton shifts on the couch and Chris suddenly becomes aware that his hand is resting on Anton’s thigh. Immediately he feels like it’s burning a hole through the quilt and into Anton’s leg, but he can’t remove it without making a big deal out of it. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

“Kids are mean,” Anton says.

“You should know.”

“Hey!” Anton’s outrage strangles the voice in his throat, and Chris laughs. “I _was_ going to say you could take care of me, but now—”

“I’m sorry,” Chris says at once, and Anton grins at him.

“Well, okay then. You can take care of me. If you want.”

Chris fidgets a little. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Anton shrugs. “What do we do next?”

“I thought maybe…” He swallows. “Would you let me maybe…”

“I’ll probably say yes,” Anton supplies helpfully.

“Maybe you should have a bath and I could help you,” Chris says in a rush. Anton colors a little, and presses his lips together slightly, but he nods.

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll go run it,” Chris says, stumbling backwards and upwards. “You – stay here. I’ll come and get you.”

  
***

  
The bath is tepid, but not too cool, and Anton sinks into it with a sigh of relief. Chris, stammering, told him to leave his briefs on if he preferred, but Anton stripped them off with out even slowing down. His skin is still pink across his chest, but it gradually pales back to his normal color as Chris, kneeling by the bathtub, washes him down.

“Is it okay?” he asks. “You feel okay?”

“It’s good,” Anton says, and it sounds sincere at least. He’s closed his eyes. His hair is trailing into the water, ringlets straightening themselves into tendrils. It’s longer than he really likes wearing it, Chris knows, but it’s for Chekov.

He squeezes out the washcloth over Anton’s hair, letting the rivulets flatten down curls and wash away the sweat. Anton lets out a long, content breath and sinks a little deeper in the tub. Once his hair is mostly wet, Chris moves down to his shoulders and chest again, and then can’t help himself running the cloth a little lower, over those incredible abs, which might as well have been carved into his stomach by Michelangelo himself, they’re so damn perfect. Anton has been working out with determination for _Trek_ , and damn if it hasn’t paid off.

He’s watching those muscles moving under skin so intently that it takes a second to realize – Anton is hard, and his cock is grazing the back of Chris’s hand. Chris only realizes he’s staring when Anton opens his eyes and looks at him. “You stopped.”

Chris snaps his head around quickly, trying to pretend he wasn’t looking. “I stopped?”

“Washing.”

He hurriedly splashes more water around, trying to ignore the way Anton is looking at him.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Anton asks. “You look kind of embarrassed.”

“Of _course_ I’m fucking embarrassed,” Chris says through clenched teeth. “It’s – this – it’s not just about the taking care of – I – maybe we should just –”

Anton grabs his wrist and sighs. “I’m not stupid, Chris, okay? I get what it’s about. You think I’m just a kid, and okay, maybe I’m younger than you are, but I’m not naïve. I _know_ what this is about, and I’m fine with it, and if I have to say it again it’s gonna be really annoying, so just _chill_.”

Chris gives him a skeptical look, and Anton frowns, sits forward in the bathtub, reaches out a hand and grasps Chris between the legs, over his jeans but firm, ignoring his flails.

“Yeah. Okay. So. Just chill,” he repeats, having confirmed his suspicions. He slumps back in the bath and closes his eyes again. When the water stops sloshing around, he opens one eye, peers at Chris through lowered eyelashes, and says, “I don’t think you’re weird. And there’s an inflatable pillow in the drawer there.”

Even through the fringe of lashes, Chris can see the twinkle in his eye. He takes a deep breath and decides it’s time to just Go With It.

“Thanks,” Anton says, once Chris has blown up the pillow and settled it under his neck. “You’re good at this.”

Chris feels extremely pleased with himself. “How are you doing? Your throat?”

“It feels better, but it’s still aching. You know…never mind.”

“What?”

“I have other aches as well.” Anton gives him a bright grin. “That’s a really bad line, I should apologize for that.”

Chris looks at him in confusion, until Anton rolls his eyes.

“I’m talking about my dick.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Heh.”

“I’m not actually kidding,” Anton says after it becomes obvious that Chris isn’t going to do anything with the information. “I could really do with a—”

“Anton! You. Are. Not. Well. Your aching dick will have to stay aching for now.” But his mouth twitches.

“I really think it would help,” Anton says seriously. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor, letting you play doctor. Can’t you do me one?”

“Okay,” Chris says immediately, and Anton gives a delighted chuckle.

“That was easy.”

Oh, no. Chris isn’t going to let him get away with that. “Keep talking like _that_ and I won’t—”

“Alright, alright.”

“And I’m _not_ playing doctor.”

“Alright, I’m sorry for that too! Now can you –?”

Chris laughs in triumph, and relents. He rummages for a moment in the bathroom cabinet, and finds some massage oil – strawberry-flavored, according to the label, and it’ll work fine for Chris’s purposes. He pours some into his hands and rubs them together, and then, business-like, grabs Anton’s dick.

“Hey, a little foreplay would be nice, considering I’m sick!” Anton protests.

“This is purely medicinal.” Chris smiles, all innocence. “Necessitated by your aches and pains, right?”

Anton shifts around in the water, amused. “Oh, I get it. I’m still doing you a favor.”

“I prefer to think that we’re scratching each other’s backs,” Chris says, and starts a brisk up and down stroke. The water rhythmically swills around his forearm, and Anton lets his head drop back onto the pillow again with a small noise of approval. Chris slips a hand down to his balls, intending to give them a light massage. But Anton flinches.

“I’m kinda sensitive there right now.”

Chris stops, and gives him a firm look. “Should we be doing this at all?”

Anton looks self-conscious. “Yeah, it’s just my balls. My dick is fine. Really. Fine and also hard, so if you don’t mind…”

The oil does its job, but by the time Anton is panting and on edge, it’s soaked into Chris’s hand and Anton’s cock. There’s more friction, but Anton doesn’t seem to mind. Chris finds himself absently rubbing his own hard-on into the side of the bathtub even as he concentrates on the job at hand.

“You close?” he asks, and it’s supposed to sound clinical, but he can’t help the husky tone in his voice.

“Uh huh. Yeah, I’m gonna – _fuck_ , I’m gonna –”

He comes with a loud groan and Chris feels the warmth flooding against his hand in the cooler water.

“There you go,” he says. “All better?”

“All better,” Anton pants, grinning. “Thanks.” He winces a little as he sits up in the bath.

“So like I said, I’m going to stay the night,” Chris says.

“But I’m contagious. Probably.”

“Yeah, you said that before. And what did I say?”

“You made some absurd comment about having a stronger immune system than I do.” But Anton looks pleased, despite his protests.

“That’s right. In fact, I think it would be best if I stayed in the same bed. Just in case.”

“Just in case, huh?” Anton shakes his head, amused. “I seem to be doing nothing _but_ favors for you.”

“I just want to take care of you,” Chris says, feeling awkward again.

“I know. I’m just teasing. Sorry.” Anton rises up gingerly and Chris helps him out of the bath, rubs him down with a towel. He uses a light hand between Anton’s legs, although he notes with approval that Anton is pretty stacked down there. Chris has never had much chance to look him over before, because all their encounters have been brief, fumbling – quick and dirty. But Anton’s nuts are nice and big, fiercely red, a plump pillow for his softened cock.

“You can stay,” Anton says. “I’d like you to stay. Just don’t try to take my temperature in the middle of the night or something.”

Chris beams.

  
***

  
But the next morning, he wakes early to a groaning Anton. Anton has pulled a pillow over his face, is making loud complaining noises, and is hot to the touch. He slept naked, but it seems like his fever has gone up.

“This isn’t good,” Chris says, rubbing his eyes.

“My junk hurts.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean my _junk hurts_ , what do you _think_ I mean?”

Chris feels his heart seize in his chest. “Because of yesterday? Because I got you off? Fuck. I _hurt_ you? Did I—”

“I don’t _know_. All I know is, it _hurts_. My balls are _killing_ me. I need a doctor.”

“Let me have a look.” Chris feels terrible, but he’s determined to make everything better. If he can. Anton doesn’t protest as he pulls the blankets down to have a look, but what Chris sees makes him yelp.

“ _What?_ ” Anton gasps, pulling away the pillow, but the sight of his face makes Chris clap a hand over his mouth.

“Holy _fuck_ , dude.”

“What? What’s _wrong_ with me?” Anton is starting to sound panicked, Chris realizes – as well he should, but panic is not going to help.

“You need a doctor,” Chris tells him, trying to sound calm, but his voice is wavery and he knows Anton can see the shock in his eyes. “You look – not good. You’re all…swollen. _Everywhere_.”

Anton struggles out of the bed, and Chris immediately dashes to help him. “I don’t think you should look,” he says, but Anton is determined.

When he sees his face in the mirror, Anton doesn’t scream and he doesn’t recoil in horror. He looks unbelieving. Turns to Chris and says, “I think I’m hallucinating.”

“No. I’m sorry. You’re really not.”

Anton swivels back to look at the mirror again and raises a hand tentatively to his face. His cheeks and neck are blown up like a balloon.

“I look like a – a _chipmunk_. What’s _wrong_ with me?”

Chris takes a deep breath. “I think it might be…the mumps.”

  
***

  
It _is_ the mumps. Chris drives him home from the doctor and hustles him back in to bed.

“You heard what the doctor said.” Chris had gone into the consultation with him on Anton’s insistence. It would have been more fun if he hadn’t popped a boner when the doctor depressed Anton’s tongue to check his tonsils, because _that_ was damn embarrassing. “Rest and painkillers and fluids. I’ll call your mom if you like, but I’m staying till she gets here. Where is she, anyway?”

“France,” Anton says miserably.

“Oh. Well. Even if we call her she won’t be able to get back for a day.” Chris strokes his hair.

Anton doesn’t reply.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m ugly.”

“You are not. You’re—”

“Disgusting? Bizarre? _Gross_?”

“No. Cute.” Chris smiles. Now that the shock of seeing Anton looking like a puffer fish has worn off, Chris has started thinking he looks completely adorable. Sick, cranky and adorable.

“I’m _hideous_.”

“You’re gorgeous, even all…lumpy.

Anton struggles off the bed and stares at himself in the dresser mirror.

Chris has made it all the way to the doctor’s and all the way back to Anton’s place without snickering even once, but the sight of Anton prodding his engorged neck in the mirror and reciting “Mumps. Mumps. Mumps,” to himself is too much. He tries to hide it but Anton hears him giggling into the pillow.

They fight.

Chris feels really bad for laughing, and tries to apologize, but Anton wants to throw him out. He’s still feverish, though, and yelling makes him light headed enough that he collapses to the ground. Chris manages to catch him before he hurts himself, and drags him back to the bed.

“I’m staying,” Chris says firmly. “I’m sorry I laughed. Really.”

“I’d never laugh at _you_.”

“I know; I _suck_. I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Anton is too exhausted to argue anymore, and acquiesces as Chris makes him comfortable and brings him more chicken soup and some ibuprofen.

“How’s your junk?”

“Sore. And that’s _definitely_ not funny.”

No, it’s not. The doctor explained that mumps can sometimes cause infertility in men due to testicular swelling and damage, which made Anton more morose than Chris has ever seen him, although he perked up a little when the doctor told him it was unlikely in this case. They’ve caught it relatively early. Chris feels a little better at that, because he’s been having waves of guilt about not realizing Anton’s balls were not just big, they were literally _enlarged_.

“I’m sorry I laughed,” Chris says again, leaning over to kiss Anton’s sticky forehead.

“You shouldn’t do that. You’ll catch it.”

“I’m vaccinated,” Chris says with a shrug. “I’ll get you an ice pack for your balls.”

  
***

  
Since Anton is sick, production on the movie moves on to film scenes without him, although Chris still has to go in. Begging JJ has earned Chris a few early marks for the week, but Anton spends most of his time sleeping or reading or quietly watching movies anyway.

Chris brings over some clothes and a toothbrush and, without any real discussion between them, moves into Anton’s place for a while. They even sleep in the same bed every night, just so Chris can keep an eye on him.

Nothing happens, although Chris likes to watch him sleeping sometimes. Other times, he has to fight the urge to kiss Anton’s smooth cheeks and thick eyelashes. But he reminds himself that he’s a _carer_ now, and he’s supposed to be _tending_ to Anton, not jumping his bones. It helps him put the urge aside.

The rest of the cast seem to think Chris is doing some noble thing, taking care of Anton while his family is out of town, but Chris just shrugs. He’s never had such a great chance to do this before, to care for someone and make them feel better than they did five minutes ago, to make sure they get rest and don’t over-excite themselves; to feel like he’s contributing to their actual well-being. He’s enjoying himself thoroughly.

Every night he makes comfort food for Anton, things that require minimal chewing, and even the unfamiliar Russian recipes that he requests sometimes. Chris is sure his mother makes them better, but Anton hasn’t complained at all. They’ve agreed not to call his mom, since Anton wants to make sure she has a worry-free vacation, and it’s not like Chris is going to argue about it.

He gets to take Anton’s temperature every morning and every night, although the fever abates by day three, and doles out his medication with clockwork regularity.

Chris even talks him into a bedpan. Anton, on Chris’s insistence, is drinking enough fluids to flood a desert, so using a bedpan only takes a little persuasion. Chris buys the best and most convenient one he can find, after long and solemn consultation with a pharmacist. Anton is suffering such malaise that he doesn’t protest at all after the first time Chris situates him in the pan. Chris tries to focus on the medical reality and be objective, but he can’t help but feel happy that Anton’s balls have diminished a little, back to normal size.

Chris is in heaven. He’s walking around in a daze, smiling like it’s his job, so that even the paparazzi are disconcerted. And one afternoon, when he comes home early from the set, Anton even lets Chris give him a sponge bath. Being allowed to wash down his long limbs while Anton lies limply in the bed gives Chris both a tremendous feeling of satisfaction and rightness and a massive hard-on that is actually painful by the end of it.

He finds himself strongly sympathizing with Anton’s aching junk.

But soon enough Anton is much better, his face less hamster-like and his spirits returning. He can even chew the matzo balls in Chris’s chicken soup now, although he doesn’t appreciate Chris’s joke that he’s made them smaller this time, to match Anton’s less-swollen nuts.

Ten days after he invited himself into Anton’s life, it’s time to leave. Chris has packed and is sitting on the bed next to Anton, who is re-reading his _Star Trek_ script. He’s back to work tomorrow and he says he wanted to refresh his memory. “The mumps made me addled,” he explains to Chris.

“I’d better get going,” Chris says eventually. Now that Anton has recovered, he’s starting to feel weird about the whole thing again. He’s not needed anymore. It’s time to leave the poor kid alone.

“I’m gonna miss this,” Anton says with a smile. “It’s been nice having my Captain on 24-hour call.”

Chris ducks his head. “Me too. It’s been really…thanks. For, you know. Letting me.”

“Letting you be my slave?” Anton is joking around, but Chris really does feel like he’s letting go of something important. Something fulfilling.

“You indulged me,” he admits. “You knew it was something I wanted to do and you let me, even when you were getting better and didn’t _really_ need me hanging around helping. So, yeah. Thank you.”

Anton gets a strange look on his face, half-amused and half something else that Chris can’t identify. “I think I might be getting a little feverish again,” he says.

“What?”

“I’m serious. I think you need to take my temp. Just to make sure.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ha ha.”

“Chris.” Chris looks at him, cautious. “I’m telling you – you can take my temperature. Right now. If you want. Do you want to?” He sits up on his knees and shuffles forward on the bed towards Chris, who finds he can’t move a muscle.

But Anton reaches over to grab the thermometer and presses it into Chris’s hand. “Hello? What are you waiting for?”

“Okay,” Chris whispers, and seeing Anton open his mouth and wait, docile, prompts a wave of longing. He pops in the thermometer and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. When he opens them, Anton is gazing at him. Chris has no idea what to say, but he’s saved from his worries when the familiar beep sounds.

“Perfect,” he breathes, after checking it. “You’re perfect again. All better.” And he feels grateful to Anton for letting him do that one last time.

“I don’t know,” Anton says slowly. “I _feel_ hot.”

Chris frowns and holds the back of his hand up to Anton’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot to me.”

Anton smirks.

“Um,” Chris says. “I’m starting to think we’re having two different conversations here.”

“I think you should take my temp again,” Anton tells him. He has his most cherubic expression on. “But more accurately.”

“More…”

“I hear it’s much more accurate to take an internal temperature. _Very_ internal.”

“Anton!” Chris clutches his own shirt, shocked despite himself. He makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat, and then tries again. “Are you sure? I mean…”

“For once, Christopher, can you maybe treat me like an adult who knows his own mind?” Chris has to smile at the use of his full name. “I’m not a kid, no matter how much you treat me like one. And I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want to. So are you going to take my temp or not? Come on. Just to make sure?”

“Are you seriously suggesting I shove this up your—”

“No, I’m seriously suggesting you carefully lube it up and use it as a sex toy,” Anton says, completely business-like now. “I know you like that kind of thing. Haven’t you fantasized about maybe doing that to me?”

Oh, God. “Well – I mean – I guess. I like the medical stuff, but…I also just like taking care of people. Of you. I don’t know why I like it, I just do.”

“Then take care of me.” Anton’s voice is soft again, and he reaches out a hand to untangle Chris’s fingers from his shirt-front.

Chris tries to say something, but nothing comes out.

Anton sighs. “You know, the last time I got any kind of _relief_ was that time in the bath. And my junk’s all better, now.” He gives a cheerful smile. “I just wanna fool around a bit. I’ve been sleeping naked next to you for almost two weeks and you haven’t even _touched_ me. I started wondering if it was because of my chipmunk face.” He blows his cheeks out and Chris smiles, shakes his head. “Well, it’d be validating to know I haven’t lost my charm. And also – you really _did_ take good care of me. Just as good as my own mom would have. Without the handjob,” he adds hastily. “Wow. That kind of came out wrong. But, anyway. Come on. Take care of me.”

“Take care of you.” Chris bites his lip, feeling want flood his system as effectively as any endorphin hit. “Okay. I guess you’d better get undressed.”

Anton immediately starts pulling off his clothes and, after a moment of hesitation, Chris does as well. Once they’re both naked, Anton flops face down on the bed, groaning dramatically.

“I don’t feel well, Doctor Pine. What’s wrong with me? I feel all hot.”

Chris starts to giggle. “You’re making fun of me.”

Anton wiggles his ass in the air and then looks back at Chris with a mischievous grin. “You laughed at me and my mumps. Just getting my own back. Come _on_.”

There’s lube in the top drawer of the nightstand, Chris knows, and he fishes it out nervously. No one has ever let him put a thermometer up their butt before. “I think this thermometer actually came with a switchable tip, like, a rectal tip. Do you want me to go—”

“ _No_. Just do it. Please.”

“Okay. I’m doing it.”

He looks at the tip of the thermometer and then considers Anton’s ass. It doesn’t seem like something this small would need much prep work going in, but – he’s only fingered Anton once before, on that day he needed cheering up, and Anton seemed to like it. _Really_ like it.

So Chris stands up.

“What’re you doing?” Anton asks, turning his head again.

“Spread your legs.” Chris repositions himself between Anton’s thighs, on his stomach with his nose hovering over two pert globes. He licks his lips and breathes out. Anton twitches. “Can I…”

“You can absolutely do whatever you want right now as long as you stop asking permission for everything and just _do it_.” Anton’s voice is muffled in the pillow, but Chris gets the message. He pulls apart Anton’s cheeks and lays a lubed finger tentatively just above his hole.

He _almost_ asks permission again.

Anton’s hips jerk when Chris liberally squirts lube all down his crack, and again when he lightly dips the tip of his finger inside, as though he’s trying to buck it deeper into him. “Hold still,” Chris says, trying to sound firm. “Let _me_ do it.” _He’ll_ decide what the patient needs. The thought creeps up on him, makes him flush a little, but it’s not like Anton can see his face, so he just Goes With It. Again. “I think you need an internal exam first, and then I’ll check your temp.”

His words make Anton moan faintly into his pillow and Chris feels an answering throb from his own thickening cock. He inches his finger in slowly until he’s embedded up to the second knuckle and twists. Anton is warm inside, hot even, and Chris wonders for a split second whether he really is still sick. But he’ll find out soon enough with the thermometer, so he might as well enjoy himself in the meantime.

Another finger, and Anton starts writhing around until Chris puts an arm over his lower back to hold him in place. He presses his lips against Anton’s buttcheek as he speaks. “I said keep still. Or you won’t get a lollipop afterwards.”

Anton snorts, and Chris smiles as well, then leisurely twists his fingers again, listening with pleasure to Anton’s slow, sighing _Oooooh_. “Seems okay internally,” he says. “What about this?” He pushes in further and curls his fingers. Judging by the way Anton squirms underneath him, he’s found what he was looking for.

“Y-yes,” Anton stammers out. “That’s definitely okay.”

“No pain?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“And you’d tell me if it hurt, wouldn’t you?” Chris asks, pulling his fingers out a little before pressing them back in, teasing and unhurried. Anton makes a desperate-sounding noise in reply.

He spends several more minutes fingering and biting softly into Anton’s ass, making him squeak and yelp in a very satisfying way, until Anton lifts his head and pants out, “Stop teasing, stop teasing, Chris, _please_ —”

“I need to take your temp now,” Chris says, measured and deliberate. “Stop moving about. You need to stay still.”

He grabs the thermometer and rubs it over with lube, and then, holding his breath, slides it into Anton’s hole carefully, watching as it disappears into him. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he blurts out, and Anton chuckles.

The beep comes too soon. Chris retracts it, checks the temperature – perfect. “I think we’d better do it again, just to make sure.”

“You’re the doctor. As long as you fuck me when you’re done.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Chris mutters.

It’s only after the fifth time the beep sounds that Anton makes a restless movement, and Chris decides it’s time for Anton to have some fun as well. He wipes down the thermometer and sets it aside, scrabbles for a condom.

Neither of them speak as Chris rolls Anton over, and pulls his legs up. He’s never fucked Anton before and Anton has never fucked him – it’s always been BJs in the set trailer or hand jobs in the bathroom at parties or clubs. So Chris wants to savor the moment, but finds himself being pulled roughly into Anton by his hips.

“Fuck me,” Anton demands. “Come _on_. I need to come.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Chris breathes. Anton is so hard he shoots about a minute into it, arching his body and laughing to himself once the groans and gasps subside. Chris can’t hold on much longer, even though it bruises his ego a little to think he’s only fucked the kid for three minutes before he comes and collapses forward onto Anton.

He can hear Anton’s heartbeat as it slows to its resting rate.

After a moment or two, Chris withdraws, and rolls off him, disposes of the rubber.

“I really do feel better,” Anton yawns, and Chris gives a pleased, short laugh. They subside into silence for a while, until Anton says, “Why didn’t you just become a doctor if you like this stuff so much?”

Chris stares at him. “You’re kidding me, right? How exactly do you think that would work? I’d be sued for malpractice as soon as I saw my first patient. At least as an actor I might get a chance to _play_ a doctor without totally destroying my career.”

Anton chuckles and glances at the thermometer, lying on a Kleenex on his nightstand. “So, that thing’s never going in my mouth again.”

“No,” Chris agrees. “Not a great idea.”

They lie quietly together, breathing in tandem.

“It _could_ go in my ass again sometime, though, right? When I need to be taken care of?” Anton rolls, props himself up on his arm, and looks at Chris. There’s a teasing smile tugging at his mouth.

“When you need to be taken care of, yes.”

“You know, I’m not feeling too great right now…”

Chris is up, pushing him back down onto the bed. “You’re goddamn insatiable. But okay. Tell me where it hurts.”


End file.
